


Someone To Watch Over Me

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coda, Episode: s02e10 Hunted, M/M, Worried Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-05
Updated: 2007-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 'Hunted'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone To Watch Over Me

Dean went quiet after they found what was left of Ava's fiance. He went into uber-protective older brother mode, all but shoving Sam out the door and wiping off every surface they'd so much as breathed on. Once they were in the car he put his foot on the gas and didn't take it off again until they hit Gary, Indiana.

Sam didn't say anything. He couldn't think of anything _to_ say; not yet. He was still trying to wrap his head around what he'd seen, trying to draw some conclusion from it that didn't involve Ava walking around with black eyes and a nasty smile. Or worse, Ava walking around entirely in control of herself, cutting up people for _fun_. He couldn't talk to Dean about any of that until he had an argument against it. One that would convince them both.

So they drove and they didn't speak; they stayed silent and the miles passed by, and finally Dean turned off I-80, found a Super 8 and idled the car outside the office while Sam went in to get a room. It was sheer instinct keeping them moving, Sam knew; they'd scented danger, and they'd run from it. Not the Winchester way, ordinarily, but things weren't ordinary anymore. Not with a rogue hunter after them who might have said God knows what to everyone he met, and Sam half-expecting to wake up covered in blood every time he went to sleep, Dean gone or worse, still there but hacked to ribbons – and that was _before_ they'd gone to Peoria. He hadn't said anything to Dean about those dreams, but Sam had a feeling Dean knew anyway. Sam wondered what he said in his sleep.

So they'd hole up here for a couple of days, figure out what to do with this new turn of events, and they'd be fine. As soon as Sam thought of a reason for it. As soon as he could make Dean realise that the same fate didn't necessarily lay in store for him.

As soon as he could make himself believe that too.

Sam paid for the room and returned to the car, flipping the room key over so Dean could see the number 9 on the tag. Dean grunted and edged the Impala over to its slot in front of the room. Sam missed the low rumble of the engine as soon as it was gone.

Dean was out of the car and grabbing his duffel out of the trunk before Sam realised he'd moved. Sam followed suit, somewhat slower, barely catching his bag as Dean threw it at his chest.

"Dibs on the shower," Dean said. It was the first time he'd spoken in two hours.

Sam unlocked the door and pushed inside; Dean brushed past him, dumping his bag on the bed nearest the bathroom and kicking his boots off on the way. The bathroom door slammed shut a moment later; Sam heard the lock click into place on the other side, and his hackles went up. Dean never locked the door against him.

 _That was before_ , part of him whispered. _Now he's got a reason to. Now he knows what you can do._

Sam shook his head, snarling at himself. Dean wasn't afraid of him. Couldn't be. Not in a million years.

The locked door taunted him silently. Sam snarled at that too, pacing back and forth across the room. He strained his ears listening for Dean moving around, waiting for the hiss of water, the rattle of a cheap plastic shower curtain. He heard nothing but his own harsh breathing and the rasp of his jacket over his cast.

Christ, he hadn't even taken off his jacket yet. Sam blew out an irritated breath and stopped short, shrugging out of his top two layers. His t-shirt was plenty warm enough in here; wonder of wonders, they'd found a motel where the furnace actually worked. Sam made a mental note to stay here again if they ever came back this way.

He sat down on the bed and toed off his shoes and socks, flopping back across the mattress. Wondered what to do about Ava, about Dean, about everything. Wished he could see Dad again so he could punch him square in the face. Telling Dean he might have to kill Sam; what the hell kind of thing was that to do? And what did it _mean_? Dean clearly had no clue, and that worried Sam more than everything else put together. Dean always knew what to do. A world where Dean didn't have a plan was a world alien to Sam's entire perception.

The bathroom was too damn quiet. Sam sat upright and stared at the door, willing Dean to drop something, bang into the cabinet, anything to make some noise, so Sam didn't feel like he was totally alone out here, so he didn't—

The faintest of noises, then. A whisper of sound, so quiet Sam would've missed it if he hadn't been so focused. A small, hitching breath, quickly stifled but escaping through the gap under the bathroom door.

Sam was off the bed and working at the lock before the sound died away. Three seconds later he had the door and his mouth open. To say what he didn't know, because then he saw Dean sitting in the bathtub with his arms wrapped around his knees, head buried between them, and it felt like he'd been hit with a tire iron.

"Dean," he croaked, falling back against the wall. "Dean, what—"

"Get out, Sam."

His brother stared up at him, eyes full of something Sam didn't want to call despair, because if Dean was despairing, they were both royally fucked. He watched as Dean tried to harden his gaze, tried to will anger into his face, but they both knew it was a hollow effort. It was hard to pull off the don't-fuck-with-me look when you were crouched in the fetal position in a rusty bathtub.

"Dean," Sam tried again. He took a step forward, hand out toward him. "Dude, you're scaring me, here."

Dean laughed, sharp and bitter, the sound echoing off the walls. Sam stopped moving and stood very still.

"I'm scaring you," Dean repeated, eyebrow raised. Conversational, as if they were discussing whether to get Chinese or pizza for dinner instead of Dean's apparent breakdown. "That's a good one, Sammy. You ought to take your show on the road. Oh wait, we already did." He put his head back down on his arms. "Get the fuck out of here."

"No." Sam took another step forward, a long one, bringing him within a foot of the tub. "Talk to me."

"Fuck off." Dean's voice was low, dangerous. "I mean it, Sam. I'm not kidding around."

"You think I am? Dean, you're hunkered down in there like you're trying to hide. And the only thing around here to hide from is me." Sam ran a hand through his hair, feeling the shake in his voice, hating the way it sounded. "I haven't turned yet, Dean."

That got Dean's attention. He was on his feet and looming over Sam in moments, the raised tub giving him extra height.

"You're not _gonna_ turn, Sammy," Dean almost spat. "It's not gonna happen. So you can stop with that shit right now, you hear me?"

Their faces were only inches apart, Sam tense, Dean flushed and heaving for breath. His eyes darted back and forth over Sam's face, looking for what Sam didn't know. He stayed put and let Dean look. He had nothing to hide.

 _Yet_ , that small part of him leered, and Sam felt his face twist in denial.

"So what are you doing in here, Dean? Meditating? Because it looks a hell of a lot like you're freaking out, which makes you a hypocrite _and_ a liar."

Dean's fist came flying at his face; Sam caught it, held it tight when Dean tried to pull it back.

"Talk. To. Me." He spoke softly, forcing Dean's fingers open to twine with his own. "It's no fun losing your shit alone, Dean. Ask me how I know."

Dean looked at him then, square in the face like he hadn't since Sam entered the room. Sam tilted his head and tugged Dean a little closer. Watched his brother's throat move as he swallowed, started to speak.

"I can't lose you, Sammy," he whispered on a shuddering breath. "Not like that. Not – I can't, that's all. I won't. But Dad—" He stopped, shook his head. "I don't know if—"

_Dad, you asshole. Didn't you fuck him up enough while you were alive?_

"Hey," Sam said, putting his free hand on Dean's shoulder. "Hey, Dean. Don't do that, man. Don't go there. You're the one keeps saying you're watching out for me, right? That nothing bad's gonna happen to me as long as you're around? Well, I believe you, Dean. I believe you when you say that. And after all the shit that's gone down since Jessica died, all the times you've saved my ass even when I didn't deserve it – it's gonna take more than Dad's say-so to make me believe otherwise." He squeezed Dean's shoulder and tried to grin. "Hell, you know I never listened to him anyway."

"Sam ..." Dean started, then sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. "We can't just blow this off like it doesn't mean anything, man. Ava—"

"We don't know what happened to Ava," Sam cut in. "She could've been abducted for all we know. We can't assume anything, Dean."

"We can assume she was present when her fiance was hacked to death," Dean shot back, tensing.

"Maybe," Sam replied, calmer than he actually felt. "Maybe not. But we can't make plans without knowing what's going on."

"You want to go back?" Dean asked, eyes intent on Sam's face. "Do some digging?"

It was the only thing to do, Sam realised. They needed answers, and they weren't going to get them by running off into the night like this. He didn't want to face the aftermath of whatever had happened to Ava, but it looked like they didn't have much of a choice.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think so."

"Well, I don't," Dean said bluntly. "I think we ought to get as far away as possible, keep out of sight. I don't like being so goddamn visible, Sam."

"Maybe you ought to sell the car then, Dean," Sam said, raising an eyebrow, and grinned when Dean huffed. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Come on, man. A little time spent tracing Ava's steps isn't going to hurt."

"You just want to get back inside a library," Dean accused. "What, do you break out in hives if you don't get book dust in your lungs every few weeks?"

Sam rolled his eyes and tugged until Dean had to either get out of the tub or trip over it. "Yeah, I'm hooked on paper," he deadpanned. "Can't get enough of the stuff. Jonesing real hard right now, as a matter of fact."

Dean stepped up hard against him, and suddenly all humour left the situation.

"How hard?" he murmured, sliding his hand down and across Sam's belly into his jeans. Sam grunted and bucked slightly into his grip, letting go of Dean's other hand so he could drag him closer and nuzzle into his neck.

"Very, very hard," he whispered in reply. "If I don't get my hands on a book right this second, I don't know what I might do."

Dean shivered for a second in his hold; Sam backed off, but Dean reeled him back in and hooked a leg around his knees, keeping him close.

"Better do something about that, then." His grin was quick and brighter than the fluorescent beam overhead, and Sam could only stare dumbly as he always did when Dean went to his knees for him.

One quick, almost brutal blowjob later, Sam was leaning against the wall and fighting for breath while Dean brushed his teeth, grimacing at the taste of Sam's come.

"Dude, you have got to stop eating Cheetos," he said. "I'm gonna be tasting that for days." He rinsed his brush and stuck it back in his shaving kit.

"Shouldn't have swallowed, then," Sam said with a grin, and reached for him. Dean dodged out of the way, and Sam frowned. "Hey, don't you want—"

"Nah, I'm good." Dean darted a look at him, evasive. "Too tired now anyway."

He went out into the bedroom, leaving Sam staring after him. Seeing the clear line of Dean's erection beneath his jeans. Seeing Dean ignore it as he got changed for bed, apparently foregoing his shower as long as Sam was in the bathroom.

"Fine," Sam muttered, and went over to his own bed. He rummaged for clean boxers to sleep in and took a quick shower, cursing Dean under his breath all the while. When he came back out, Dean was curled up in his bed, blankets wrapped tightly around him despite the warmth of the room, telegraphing 'I'm sleeping, fuck off' with the rigid line of his back.

Sam rolled his eyes and elbowed his way into the bed behind Dean, not bothering with the covers because he was warm enough without. Dean ignored him, lying stiff as a board even when Sam slung an arm over his hip and pushed his face into Dean's neck. Whatever; Sam was comfortable, and tired, and if Dean wanted to choose now to have another fit of guilt about how incest was wrong and how he'd corrupted Sam's innocence, he could damn well—

Hold up a second.

Sam pulled away from Dean and stared at the back of his head. Surely he wasn't thinking _that_. He couldn't have that big a martyr complex, could he?

"You think _you_ might be to blame if I turn?" he said in disbelief, and Dean flinched under his hand.

_Christ on a pogo stick._

Sam rolled Dean onto his back and leaned over him, close enough so Dean couldn't evade his eyes.

"Let me refresh your memory, Dean," he said softly. "I was seventeen, you were twenty, and I believe it was me who cornered you in the Impala's back seat and blew you till you saw stars." He dipped down and brushed his mouth over Dean's, light and quick, just enough to tease. "You tried to push me away, remember? Even threw a punch at me, for all the good that did."

"Sam, stop it," Dean whispered, closing his eyes.

"My choice, Dean." Sam mouthed the edge of his jaw, his cheekbone, the curve of his brow. "And it's got nothing to do with being evil. You know that as well as I do."

He stopped there, because they didn't talk about it. Like everything else between them, it was felt and done and unspoken except on pain of death or utter extremity. Besides, Dean was melting into him now, twisting and pulling Sam across his body, tilting his face up so Sam could kiss his neck. It was enough of an answer for Sam; he sat up and stripped off his boxers, pulled back the covers and got a hand on Dean.

"Sammy," was all Dean said, but his hand covered Sam's as though he were going to force Sam away, even now, and – well, fuck _that_. Sam shook him off almost roughly, pinning Dean's hands under his knees as he straddled Dean's thighs, and licked his palm to get it good and slick. Before Sam even touched him Dean arched up, seeking his touch, denial forgotten in the need for connection. Dean shuddered as Sam touched him; as always, Sam watched with his heart in his throat when Dean clutched his wrist, twisted fiercely under him and bit his lip as he came over their fingers.

It was pretty anticlimactic in the end; Sam reached for a handful of tissues and cleaned them both up, Dean rolled over again, and Sam curled up behind him. If their hearts were beating faster than normal, if Sam lay a little closer to Dean than he usually did, neither of them mentioned it.

"Back to Peoria tomorrow?" he murmured, on the edge of sleep.

Dean pulled his arm tighter across his belly, and Sam nodded into his hair, satisfied.

END


End file.
